The winter light, the old books and photographs, pierce me through and through. I move among them with my teacup like a ghost. I do not bleed from my old wounds. They might be kisses, for all I know. Words are like that too. They never say themselves. They do not know how. Yet they rule the world, each a tyger burning bright, each of heaven, each of hell. Shakespeare knew it. Sir Thomas Browne. The Lilliputians gathered ’round — raised their hands, dragged their ropes, made the wise men frown. Had they flown, I would not be here. I would be a stone instead. Granite verse, inscription locked inside my head.
December 12, 2020. Evening.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Diaries, Ghosts, Granite, Jonathan Swift, Journals, Kisses, Poems, Poetry, Shakespeare, Sir Thomas Browne, Solitude, William Blake, Winter Light, Words